


To Die Standing

by jongincident



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternative universe - revolution, Crossdressing, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Recreational Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-01-31 15:01:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18593674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jongincident/pseuds/jongincident
Summary: When a broken institution leaves perpetual emptiness in their citizens’ stomachs, when every part of his life is slowly falling into shambles, what is there to do besides fight?Chanyeol needs to lead a revolution, but what is a revolution without people to revolt? Little does he know, a certain broken dancer at the Tavern might become his biggest ally.





	1. Part 1: Origins

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is loosely inspired by the Cuban Revolution, but is not meant to promote nor condemn those ideologies.  
> Although Chanyeol & Baekhyun are Korean, I wanted this to take place in dystopian China because I know the cultural elements of China better/well enough to better craft the world of this fic. However, the settings are not real locations, but some scenes are inspired by my father's hometown in China.
> 
> \+ Huge thanks to Z for helping me plot this out!

_It is better to to die standing than to live on your knees._ \- Che Guevara

 

He could do this ten times, a thousand times, every day until his life’s end. The way his fingers tighten around the microphone, knuckles white with indignation, or how his strong legs are positioned in a powerful stance that even The Consulate’s twenty high-profile bureaucrats cannot knock down, will never fade. A certain fervor surges through his veins every time he is about to speak, an idiosyncratic passion that nothing can parallel. Because, when a broken institution leaves perpetual emptiness in their citizens’ stomachs, when every part of his life is slowly falling into shambles, what is there to do besides fight?

 

“ _Tongzhimen,_ my comrades.”

 

The frenzy and urgent whispers that circulate the room hushes as his lips graze over the microphone. The only sounds that break the otherwise silence are the distant police siren that serves as a constant reminder of the outside chaos, and his deafening heartbeat that pulses through his eardrums.

 

“I speak here, on the eve of 26th of December, like I do on every 26th of the month. Today is the day after Christmas, when The Consulate and the wealthy are celebrating with their pretty little families by their pretty little fireplaces, counting the money that piles at their feet. They do not care that this money was stolen from us--this money is the people’s money.” His voice starts off slightly soft, but becomes louder as his confidence collects in his chest.

 

“When we speak of the people we do not mean the comfortable ones, the conservative elements of the nation, who welcome any regime of oppression, prostrating themselves before the master of the moment until they grind their foreheads into the ground. When we speak of the struggle, the people means the vast unredeemed masses, to whom all make promises and whom all deceive; we mean the people who yearn for a better, more dignified and more just nation, for we have suffered injustice and mockery, generation after generation.”

 

He pauses, and notices that everyone is staring intently with passion reflected in their eyes--the same glow that fills his chest with warmth.

 

He continues. “These are the people who struggle:

“Seven hundred thousand Cathanians without work, who desire to earn their daily bread honestly without having to emigrate in search of livelihood.

 

“Five hundred thousand farm laborers inhabiting miserable shacks, who work four months a year and starve for the rest of the year, sharing their misery with their children, who have not an inch of land to cultivate, and who existence inspires compassion in any heat not made of stone.

 

“Four hundred thousand industrial laborers and stevedores whose retirement funds have been embezzled, whose benefits are being taken away, whose homes are wretched quarters, whose salaries pass from the hands of the boss to those of the usurer, whose future is a pay reduction and dismissal, whose life is eternal work and whose only rest is in the tomb.

 

“Three hundred thousand families in Cathay who live cramped into barracks and tenements without even the minimum sanitary requirements, drinking water infested with parasites.

 

“These are the people, the ones who know misfortune and therefore, are capable of fighting with limitless courage!”

 

A roar erupts from the crowd and everyone stands on their feet with their fists raised in the air. “Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!”

 

The right side of his lips lifts up into a half smile, almost like a smirk, with a hint of conceit. He raises his arm and lift a single finger. The crowd once again grows silent.

 

“The future of the country and the solution of its problems cannot continue to depend on the selfish interests of a dozen financiers, nor on the cold calculations of profits that ten or twelve magnates draw up in their air-conditioned offices.  The country cannot continue begging on its knees for miracles…The problems of Cathay can be solved only if we dedicate ourselves to fight for Cathay--fight with the same energy, honesty, and patriotism our liberators had when they created it.

 

“There is no excuse. Cathay could easily provide for a population three times as great as it now has. Markets should be overflowing with produce, pantries should be full, all hands should be working. This is not an inconceivable thought.  What is inconceivable is that anyone should go to bed hungry, that children should die for lack of medical attention; what is inconceivable is that 30% of our farm people cannot write their names and that 99% of them know nothing of Cathay’s history.

 

“We all seek a common goal--for a country of sovereignty, of social justice, of education, and of liberty. And thus, we must stand in unison, to fight for a world that now only seems like a utopia. But I will tell you that this life is possible. But only if you join me in this fight.

 

What do you say?”

 

“Yes! We are with you! _Duizhang_ ! _Duizhang_ ! _Duizhang_!”

 

He salutes to the crowd before stepping off the podium. The chants continue to reverberate through the walls of the pub, the various voices blending into one strong cry for justice. In moments like these, all the work he has done in opposition to The Consulate finally pays off. The sense of unity circulating the atmosphere reminds him that this will be an uphill battle--a long and gruesome one--but he will not be alone.

 

\--

 

“How much longer will it take? We don’t have much time.” Jongin, the man who sits diagonal to Chanyeol, retorts sharply. Jongin is a loyal comrade whose emotionless face masks his hot headed nature.

 

Chanyeol rolls up his sleeves and downs another shot of _baijiu_. He swallows hard, before he lets out a drawn out sigh. “How many times do I have to tell you? We still have not reached our maximum potential.”

 

Jongin’s eyes narrow. “What?! You’ve got to be kidding me.” He gesticulates around. “Chanyeol, we have been doing this for almost two years now. People are tired of waiting. Everyone is expecting something, but the revolution continues to be delayed.”

 

Chanyeol grits his teeth. “Just give me a bit more time.”

 

“Seven months,” Jongin hisses, before placing his fedora on. He abruptly slams his empty glass on the wooden table and stands up from his chair. With one sweeping motion, Jongin’s long black trench coat sweeps behind him as he exits the Tavern.

 

Chanyeol feels the gazes of the other drinkers drift to his corner of the Tavern. Thankfully, the poor lighting of the Tavern is just enough to conceal his face from recognition.

 

***

 

Chanyeol is not a newcomer at the Tavern. Between the weekly discussions, secret congregations, and drinking as a stress reliever, the Tavern is his second most frequented place, behind the comforts of his own home. He rarely makes friendly conversation with the waiters and bartenders, as he prefers spending time alone, but he has already memorized their shifts, and even receives free drinks from a few that he is closer to.

 

That is why on the 26th of January, just minutes before he is scheduled to speak like he did on every 26th of the month, he is surprised to note that the Tavern has a new addition: four dancers, all with long hair down past their shoulders (breaking the appearance rules set by The Consulate), dressed from top-down in red. Not the same red as the blood that stains the Yangtze rivers during The Consulate’s secret village raids, but a bright, fiery red. Red like the hidden flags of the _tongzhimen_. Red like the passion ignited in his chest when he speaks of revolution and new beginnings.

 

It is this passion that carries him through his monthly speeches every night of the 26th, especially tonight’s. His speech planned for today departs from the simple regurgitations of the Old Era’s communist manifesto and other glittering generalities. He knows the crowd will still stir up if he does not speaks the way he has been for the last few months, but time is ticking.  

 

They have six months until the planned revolution. That is not enough time. Yet, Chanyeol feels that no time will ever be enough.

 

Although his stoic countenance never shows it, anxiety kicks him harder than anyone else. The past few weeks has been characterized by sleepless nights, constant pacing and whispering to himself, rigorous planning, advertisement, gathering supporters, etc. No doubt, his entire team has been a tremendous help, but they can never fully comprehend the magnitude of his burden. But, it is a good kind of pressure, one that propels his motivation.

 

Yet, as he lifts his eyes, he notices that the crowd has slowly grown and filled the full capacity of the Tavern. People talk in hushed whispers, shoulder rubbing against shoulder, brimming of suppressed enthusiasm. In the very back corner of the Tavern, Jongin raises a glass and winks at him. A surge of pride mixes in with his knot of nerves; the toil of the past few weeks has finally paid off. The endless campaigning, interviews, and rallies…

 

 _“Tongzhimen_. We have gathered _a lot_ of you here tonight.” Silence, like always, falls upon the crowd. “This is a sign. The support behind our cause is enormous. Every one of you today believe in a new future for Cathay--one of equality, of justice, of liberty. We are unstoppable.”

 

A loud whoop sounds from somewhere in the middle of the throng, ricocheting along the walls of the Tavern. Chanyeol steals a glance at the crowd, but his eyes fall upon one of the rather prettier new dancers dressed in red. Unlike the rest of the dancers, who are nowhere to be seen, she leans against the back wall of the Tavern, swirling a glass of clear liquid. She stares straight at Chanyeol. Something about her gaze sends chills down his spine.

 

Quickly drawing his eyes away, he continues. “Now that we are an unimpeded force, the time you all have been waiting for has finally come. Our first mission will take place on the 14th of February, when The Consulate and the rich are drowning their lovers with presents created by the toil of factory workers and the working class.

 

“There will be a demonstration in front of The Consulate building. Why should they go home and celebrate asinine holidays whenever they choose while we have not seen our families for months? And do not forget: these holidays are not Cathanian. No, these are imperialist efforts by Usonia to civilize our ‘barbarity’ and turn ourselves Western. We must resist this encroachment. We will make our voices heard.”

 

Contrary to the response Chanyeol desires, the crowd shifts uncomfortably. However, he expected this. There has never been a successful demonstration under the rule of The Consulate before. All known demonstrators are publicly shamed and isolated, some who disappear mysteriously for months, some who return with no memory of protest, others who never return at all.

 

Chanyeol now faces the challenge of consoling the crowd. “Do not fret. The Consulate does not have the right to arrest us if we do not make any physical damage. We will be masked so that they cannot identify us. None of you will be at risk of arrest. It will be a silent protest, so we cannot be punished for defamation.”

 

He pauses. The crowd is still off, still jittering and on their toes. If he does not continue, he doubts anyone will even show up to the protest. What type of mockery would that bring? He does not want to-- _cannot_ \--find out.

 

“Everyone--”

 

“Wait!” A voice interrupts his speech from the back of the Tavern. The pretty dancer in red is still staring straight at him, this time with no glass in her hand. Despite the distance between her and Chanyeol, he notes that she has undeniably feminine features. Yet, Chanyeol is certain that it was she who just spoke. She has a rather deep voice, almost masculine, but surprisingly audible from the other side of the Tavern. “Why should we trust you? Are _you_ willing to sacrifice your life for the cause of this revolution?”

 

The question is abrupt, almost jarring, and it knocks his consciousness back into place. Chanyeol meets her cold eyes, and it is then he realizes that her inquiry is serious. He hesitates at first before uttering any word. He has always hoped that he will live, ignoring the worst-case scenarios in favor of inklings of positivity. But, if his work comes to it, will he sacrifice his life?

 

He hesitates for a brief moment. The crowd is now listening intently. Everyone seems on edge, as if anticipating what he will say next. “A revolution is not a bed of roses. A resolution is a struggle to the death between the future and the past.” Each word echoes as he recites his favorite quote from the revolutionaries of the Old Era. “It will not be easy. But if I die, it will not be at the hands of The Consulate.”

 

Chanyeol’s words hang in the air, and any response from the audience balances on the tips of everyone’s tongues but never spills out. No one utters even a whisper. No anxiety, no nervousness. Instead, every pair of eyes stares up at Chanyeol, and he can see their admiration, their determination, and is that a glint of...hopefulness?

 

***

 

The Tavern is for the unconventional, those who do not fit neatly into the mainstream of Cathanian society: the poor working class, indigenous victims of colonialism, the exiled, the darker-skinned. Although they embody a myriad of backgrounds, cultures, skin colors, and experiences, they all share one binding aspect: ardent opposition to the Consulate.

 

The Tavern is also the center for insurgency, where Chanyeol spends his hours planning and discussing for his next speech, the next gathering, and eventually--that is, if all goes as planned--revolution. The Tavern is strategically located in the middle of nowhere in the mountainous side of Cathay, one thousand miles west of the nation's Capitol. Not only is it located out of The Consulate's immediate reach, but the Tavern's layout is underground, beneath one of the smaller hills located twenty minutes away from the nearest city.

 

The smell of cheap alcohol flirts with his senses when he pushes through the Tavern doors. He steals a glance at the back corner-- _his corner_ \--and sure enough, the figure in the black cloak and fedora is seated diagonal from Chanyeol’s own usual spot.

 

Jongin is staring silently toward the front of the room, stoic like always, eyes glazed over as if his soul had left the earthly dimension.

 

"Jongin," Chanyeol greets as he slides into his stool.

 

Jongin is unresponsive, except when he downs another shot of _baijiu_. They sit in silence for a few moments. Chanyeol watches for any break in Jongin's trance, like Chanyeol always does whenever Jongin is in one of his internal existential crises.

 

"You know," Jongin finally speaks, knuckles white as he grips his empty glass, "who the fuck decided it was a good idea to form The Consulate in the first place? Like, did they just want to oppress people for fun?"

 

They both know the answer to the first question. Or at least, they know why The Consulate was formed according to the bureaucrats themselves. The countless history classes that indoctrinated the children of the middle and upper classes--those who could afford an education--imprinted "fact" upon "fact" into their adolescent minds. There is no room for the Old Era’s curriculum centered around historical analysis that Chanyeol has read about in his secret stash of forbidden books. Instead, students are forced to memorize The Consulate's twisted history textbook from cover to cover.

 

“Article One Section One: All governmental Powers is herein granted shall be vested in the Consulate of the Republic of Cathay, which consists of twenty persons including a President and a Vice President,” Chanyeol recites, word for word.

 

Jongin completes the thought for him. “Article One Section Three: The Consulate is the best form of government to preserve the utmost superiority and order of Cathay. The educated elite will protect against the threat of tyrannical opposing factions.”

 

What do those lines in the Cathanian constitution mean? Why does each class have a specific dress code? What was so threatening in the Old World that the liberators of Cathay felt the need to form a bureaucracy of twenty to dictate every aspect of life? No one truly knows the answers to these questions, but children are taught that it is in the best interests of everyone not to interrogate the superiority of The Consulate. The consequences, people know, are fatal.

 

“Jongin. What do you think would happen if we found out the motives behind the creators of Cathay?”

 

Jongin continues to gaze nonchalantly at the hustle and bustle of the other activities that goes on in the Tavern. The lack of direct eye contact, Chanyeol knows, is a sign that Jongin is not comfortable with the topic at hand.

 

“The question is, _will_ we ever find those motives?”

 

Chanyeol should have known that Jongin would say that. “You know that is not my question.”

 

Jongin leans back as far as he can, chuckles, and proceeds to smirk. “You have interesting fantasies. But if we did find them, we would probably be dead. Either that, or the rulers of Cathay.”

 

Another shot of _baijiu_ later, Chanyeol retorts, “I guess there is only one way to find out.” Whether his comment is a joke or not, is a mystery even to himself.

 

“Your drinks, sirs,” a voice breaks their pregnant silence. Someone sets two orange expensive-looking cocktails onto the table between them. Drinks that neither could afford.

 

“What is this?” Chanyeol asks, annoyed. Despite coming to the Tavern to relax, he holds the same intolerance toward imperfection that he carries while working. He does not particularly  enjoy being interrupted to hold unnecessary conversations with people he does not intend to communicate with. Right before he is about to knock the drinks over, Jongin catches his wrist.

 

“What he means is, this is a mistake. We did not order any drinks,” Jongin interjects.

 

Chanyeol finally looks up. It is the same mysterious dancer who interrupted his speech a few days earlier, except that she wears a black skin-tight dress this time.

 

The dancer bows. “My apologies. Someone told me to bring them to you two.”

 

Chanyeol narrows his eyes. “And what do they want? To poison us?”

 

The dancer hastily takes back the drinks, her arms shaking as she does so. One of the drinks tipps slightly too much, and spills the contents of the orange cocktail, soaking Chanyeol’s crisp white shirt.

 

“Sir, I am so sorry.” The dancer bows repeatedly. “I can get that cleaned for you right away. Sir, I deeply apologize for all my mishaps tonight.”

 

Chanyeol glares at the dancer. This is precisely why he does not converse with the staff at the Tavern. He pries Jongin’s grip off his wrist before redirecting his attention to the dancer. “You realize this is my favorite white T-shirt,” he states, like a fact instead of a question. Not that the statement is true, but he does not like to give an easy time to people who makes careless mistakes. “Well, what are you going to do about it?”

 

“You can come with me and I can help clean it off,” she replies meekly, staring at the ground as she speaks. Chanyeol can sense her nervousness by the slight tremor in her voice. Despite his annoyance, deep down, she amuses him. Was it not just a few days ago that she was bold enough to interrupt him in front of a full tavern? Yet now, she cowers meekly in front of him.

 

Perhaps it is this amusement that leads him to stand up. “Fine.”

 

The dancer leads him behind the bar to a private room. “Hold on sir, let me get a towel,” the dancer says before exiting the door.

 

The room he is left alone in must be a new addition; in his past explorations of the back of the Tavern, this is his first time encountering this place. It is presumably the dancers’ dressing room. Racks lined with dresses occupy one half of the space, while the other half holds several shelves stuffed full of various accessories. One plastic bin contains what looks like brown fur. Upon closer inspection, Chanyeol realizes that it is not fur, but hair from a pile of brown wigs.

 

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Chanyeol jolts around just in time to see the dancer slip into the room with a towel in her hand. Although he wears the same expressionless face, it unsettles him that he did not notice the sound of the door opening.

 

“Are you going to give me the towel or are you just going to stand there?”

 

“Ah--sorry. I’ll do it.” She approaches Chanyeol with the towel gripped in her hand so hard that her knuckles are white.

 

She hesitates before placing the towel onto the orange stain on Chanyeol’s shirt. Chanyeol is present to the proximity--the lack of a personal bubble--between them. There is only one person he allows to make physical contact with him, and that is Jongin. Even Jongin took multiple years to open up to. Strangers, of course, are an automatic no.

 

Yet, as the dancer dabs the stain with a wet towel, Chanyeol can only observe. From up close, he notes that her face is caked with makeup. Not the type that Western celebrities wear which is popular among wealthy Cathanian women, but the dancer has the look of the Cathanian stars from the Old Era--pale skin, straight brows, red lips--just like in the stolen movies he watches in the fleeting moments of his spare time.

 

Chanyeol’s eyes fall down to the dancer’s hands on his chest. Long, slender fingers work their way to clean his shirt. As he observes, something catches his attention.

 

“You sleeve is torn,” he notes. Chanyeol does not know what propels him to do so, but he grasps her wrist, the towel dropping onto the floor.

 

The dancer gasps and pulls away as quickly as possible, as if by instinct. But it is too late. Chanyeol already saw it as clear as day. There is a slight hope that he saw wrong, but in his gut, he knows his eyes made no mistake. They look like blooming purple blossoms on white snow. Ironic, because Chanyeol knows it is far from that. He has witnessed the same image when his father first found out that Chanyeol likes boys. That was also the last night he ate dinner at home.

 

Chanyeol does not say a word. He drops his arm to the side and swallows. The awkwardness surrounds him, the discomfort suffocates him. He needs to leave. “I can clean up after myself.” He picks up the towel, starts to walk toward the door and places his hand on the knob.

 

As he turns the door knob, the silence breaks. “Wait.” It sounds like a meek call for help, one that Chanyeol can ignore. Reliving past memories is not something he has time for. He opens the door.

 

“Wait!” It is a demand this time. A grip on his shoulder prevents him from taking another step.

 

“Let go of me,” Chanyeol hisses underneath his breath.

 

The dancer releases his shoulder and draws her hand away. “I-I’m sorry.” Her apology tumbles out, each word awkwardly leaving her lips. “I just wanted to say...don’t tell anyone. Please.”

 

Chanyeol pauses, one foot in the room and the other out. “I won’t,” he promises tersely, before exiting the room completely. He does not turn around once as he heads straight for his seat in the corner of the Tavern. He has things to do.

 

What the dancer does not know, however, is that something else caught Chanyeol’s attention. Besides the bruises that bloomed like violets, Chanyeol noticed that the dancer has luscious chocolate brown hair. The same exact hair that he saw in the plastic bin back in the dressing room.

 

Chanyeol thinks, recalling that masculine voice--that it is not just a coincidence.

 

***

 

“Who is that dancer over there?” Chanyeol is back in the Tavern a week later. For six nights, he avoided returning--the longest grace period in a few months--before Jongin finally forces his “ass out of a dungeon.”

 

“Oh, Baekhyun? She’s one of the dancers that the manager hired as an upgrade to the Tavern.” Jongdae, the only bartender that Chanyeol converses occasionally with, begins to prepare a drink.

 

“An upgrade?” Chanyeol inquires.

 

“Yeah, those were the words he used.” Jongdae swirls a mysterious green concentrate into what looks like tequila. “But I suspect that he only hired the dancers because he pitied them. Some of the girls have quite unfortunate backgrounds.”

 

Chanyeol smiles internally. He was right to ask Jongdae, who cannot keep his mouth shut when he is gossiping.

 

Jongdae motions Chanyeol to lean over the bar. “I heard,” Jongdae whispers, however, not subtle at all, “that Baekhyun comes from the poor _Jiangxin_ province in the northwest. No one knows much about her but…” Jongdae glanced in Baekhyun’s direction. “There’s a rumor that she--or he--is a  _man."_

 

As Jongdae concludes his sentence, the lights in the Tavern dim and the speakers come to life with a crackle. The notes of a melody begin to echo through the Tavern hall. It is one of his favorite classics from the Old Era. The sing-song nature of Old Mandarin tugs at his voice, and he cannot help but hum softly along.

 

His voice falls into a decrescendo when a single spotlight turns on and highlights the center of the stage. The light falls upon the four dancers, who are all dressed in scarlet _qipaos_ . The stage in front of him is not like the western club dances that objectify women to satisfy the desires of toxic masculinity. Rather, the dancers emulate the performances from the Old Era, fusing ballet with traditional Cathanian dance. The dancers craft legends from their performance--stories of _Chang’E_ and _Houyi_ , the Eight Immortals in the Heaven, the Stolen Maiden--all folklore stories that he heard of vaguely as a child at his grandmother’s feet.

 

Despite the flamboyant performance involving all the dancers, his eyes cannot help but be drawn to Baekhyun. The dancer is mesmerizing, the way her--or _his_ slender body bends fluidly, back arching with grace, and arms stretched elegantly above his head. Curved lines and enigmatic shadows, so dimensional yet abstract, weaving the story of the Goddess of the Moon.

 

However, more magnanimous than Chanyeol’s attraction is his curiosity. Curiosity about others is not something that strikes Chanyeol normally, but how can Baekhyun not pique his interest? Who created those bruises that scatter Baekhyun’s forearm? If this is the condition he is in, why does he still crossdress and dance at the Tavern?

 

“They’re really good, aren’t they? Especially Baekhyun.” Jongdae’s voice interrupts Chanyeol’s distracted thought process.

 

“I guess,” Chanyeol replies tersely. He keeps the rest of his thoughts in his head. He has an image to keep..

 

***

 

"Your drink, sir." A glass of clear liquid is set onto the table in front of Chanyeol, throwing him into déjà vu. Before he can make any remark, the same voice says, "I know you did not order it, but please drink it."

 

Chanyeol looks up from the pamphlet he was just immersed in. Of course, it is the dancer again. Baekhyun stands in front of him with a towel already prepared hanging on his arm, eyes refusing to look away from the ground.

 

"I do not take drinks from people I hardly know." Chanyeol draws out his words, savoring each syllable on his tongue. He looks back at the minuscule print on his pamphlet and continues where he had left off.

 

A few moments later, when Chanyeol finally admits to himself that he cannot take in any more words, he lifts his head back up. An empty space was left behind, with the faint fragrance of lingering rosemary.

 

Chanyeol furrows his brows. Why Baekhyun decided to give him a drink, he is not sure. Nonetheless, he lifts the glass to his nose and takes a whiff. The scent is cold and fresh, with a slight hint of the evergreen forest. Adding to the oddness of the situation, Baekhyun brought Chanyeol his favorite drink--a gin martini infused with sweet pine. Deciding that the drink is most likely safe, he downs it in one shot. The crisp liquid chills his throat as he swallows.

 

“Hey.” Jongin pops out of seemingly nowhere with two glasses in his hands.

 

He hands one to Chanyeol, and they clink glasses before both of them incline their heads back and pour vodka down their throats like water down the drain. By the time Chanyeol sets the empty glass down, his vision has already begun to swim, the alcohol's effects taking off.

 

What happens the rest of the night is a literal blur. His eyes are clouded over and his hearing is muffled. All he can sense are a mass of bodies, the constant hum of people, and the sharp aftertaste of alcohol stuck in the back of his throat.

 

***

 

Chanyeol wakes up to darkness. At first he considers that he might be dreaming, but when a headache hits him like a hammer, he acknowledges that he is, unfortunately, awake and hungover.

 

As he looks around, he realizes that it is not completely dark. The only source of light, albeit a dim and minimal one, comes from the back of the Tavern behind the bar. It casts long shadows that create an eerie ambience.

 

He is alone. All the tables have been cleared off, except for his own, which has a glass tipped over in a small puddle of vodka. It is also impossible to tell what time it is. The Tavern has no clock and he has forgotten his own watch at home.

 

With the headache pulsing greater every passing second, all Chanyeol wants to do is sleep in the comforts of his own bed. His home is only ten minutes away by foot, but the winters in West Cathay are brutally freezing. In his current state, walking outside in the snow is simply undesirable. Chanyeol continues to sit down and he wonders if he should just spend the night at the Tavern and wait until the sun comes up before heading back home.

 

His eyelids start to droop again, mind on the edge of consciousness. As his breathing grows deeper and slower, a sudden sound jolts him awake. He leaps out of his seat, adrenaline rushing through his veins. Chanyeol cannot see anything from his vantage point, but his sense of hearing is maximized. From the direction of the light comes the sound of a door creaking open, followed by labored breathing, and then soft footsteps.  An intruder of some sort. Perhaps the Consulate has finally found the rebels’ hiding spot. The Tavern will be destroyed by tomorrow, burnt to gray ashes.

 

More footsteps. The squeak of a floor panel. The sounds grow louder and louder, but Chanyeol cannot tell if he is imagining that or if the intruder is approaching his corner of the central Tavern hall. When the footsteps sound as if they are just around the corner, Chanyeol holds his breath and tries his best to stay hidden in the shadows. His heartbeat pulses through his ears, and for a moment Chanyeol worries that it is loud enough to give himself away.

 

Yet, no one comes. Silence replaces the sound of footsteps. Chanyeol continues to wait, afraid that the intruder is right behind the wall that his shaking body is pressed against. Suddenly, sharp labored breathing erupts from a short distance away. The noise is not the sound of an intruder, but more like an injured person.

 

Chanyeol still keeps his guard, crouching lower and slinking further back into the shadows.

 

The labored breathing turns to shallow whimpers that make Chanyeol clench his fists, as if he is the one experiencing pain. When at last he cannot stay still any longer, he slowly stands up and walks toward the source of the noise, careful not to step on a creaking floorboard.

 

The light from the back of the Tavern reveals a figure slumped against the wall while clutching their waist.

 

"Are you alright?" Chanyeol asks cautiously.

 

The figure flinches and lifted their head to stare straight into Chanyeol's soul. He will never forget that piercing gaze. Even in the dim lighting, he notices the specks of jade in those enigmatic irises. Those same eyes send a foreboding message that screams "danger." Even without the long hair, the person is unmistakable.

 

Chanyeol does not wait for a response before he quickly turns on his heels back to the front of the Tavern. He has no desire to tangle himself up in others' issues. Not when he is busy with a revolution.

 

"No, wait," Chanyeol hears from behind him. Still, he turns the doorknob of the Tavern exit. "Please, don't go."

 

He does not open the door, but asks icily, "Why should I listen to you?"

 

"I-I can help you. And you can help me." Baekhyun's reply, despite the evident pain that he is in, is surprisingly strong. Yet, Chanyeol detects the slight waver in the dancer's voice: Fear.

 

"And why would I possibly need _your_ help?" Chanyeol has turned back toward the back of the Tavern again. He is not entirely sure what stops him from abandoning the dancer. He blames the cold weather, and perhaps the same curiosity that tugged at him earlier in the dressing room, and even when he was watching the dancers' performance.

 

"Your revolution..." Chanyeol's ears perk up as those words leave Baekhyun's mouth. "I can help you make it successful."


	2. Part 2: Origins

_ It does not matter how small you are if you have faith and a plan of action _ \-- Fidel Castro

 

Baekhyun leads Chanyeol back to the dressing room. An awkward bubble separates them, making Chanyeol shift uncomfortably from time to time. He cannot help but notice the limp in Baekhyun’s step when the dancer walks.

As soon as they step foot into the dressing room, Baekhyun’s body languishes, legs giving way. Chanyeol gasps and catches Baekhyun’s arms just in time to save him from collapsing onto the floor. 

Chanyeol, with gentle movements, leans the dancer against a wall. He kneels down to meet Baekhyun at eye level, but when he scans Baekhyun’s face, the dancer’s eyes droop with exhaustion.

“Hot…” the dancer mutters, voice muffled. A sheen of forehead covers his forehead.

Chanyeol is utterly unprepared for this situation. He does the only thing that comes to mind, and begins to unbutton Baekhyun’s weathered coat. He slips the article of clothing off of Baekhyun’s clammy body.

The only thing that covers Baekhyun’s pale upper body is a series of marks. Dark purple bruises are old signs of abuse that are just beginning to heal. Fresh red lines layer over the new wounds from earlier that night. Underneath the fresh marks, permanent pink scars line his back; memories that will haunt Baekhyun forever.

Chanyeol feels bile rise to the back of his throat at the sight of the injured dancer crumpled on the floor. Yet, his arms feel heavy by his side, motionless. He contemplates what he should do next. He’s trapped in a predicament in which his heart is telling him to stay, while his brain is telling him that he’s as powerless as the dancer.

But, when he glances outside the window, he realizes that returning home is not an option. The winds outside howl as the thick snow pounds against the rooftop--a formidable obstruction to stepping outside. At last, Chanyeol leans his head against the wall next to Baekhyun. Sleep weighs down his eyelids and drags him out of consciousness.

 

***

 

Chanyeol wakes up to a sliver of of sunlight breaking through the single window in the dressing room. For a moment, he forgets where he is, before the howling of the wind outside throws him back to last night.

Baekhyun is no longer by his side. His coat, too, is gone.

Both of his legs throb when he stands up. He chooses to ignore it, exits the dressing room, and walks toward the center of the tavern. Sure enough, Baekhyun sits alone at a table with an empty glass clutched in both hands. Chanyeol stands frozen in the doorway, not yet ready to start a conversation.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me. You can come here,” Baekhyun begins.

Chanyeol narrows his eyes. Did Baekhyun just give him an order? Nonetheless, his body is too drained to protest. He cooly makes his way to Baekhyun and slides in the seat next to the dancer.

Awkward silence ensues, like it does every time they are in proximity. Chanyeol has the sudden urge to leave.

“It was my father.” Baekhyun speaks suddenly and coldly, words lined with a certain hatred.

When Chanyeol looks over to meet Baekhyun’s yes, he sees the same sentiment that he felt that night he ran away from home: a searing detestation for someone that desires control over the uncontrollable, disgust at yourself for becoming an object with no agency, for not being strong enough to fight back. But Chanyeol cannot reveal his background so soon. Those are memories he does not want to relive yet.

“Why are you telling me this?” Chanyeol asks. He does not intend for his words to sound laced with annoyance, but it is too late to take it back.

“I’m… I’m not sure.” Baekhyun lowers his chin and begins to fidget with his fingers. “I just…” The dancer begins digging his nails into his palms, as if physical pain would suppress the psychological agony.

 

Chanyeol does not think before his hand shoots shot out to grab Baekhyun’s wrist. The dancer turns to look at him with wide, wide eyes.

“Stop doing that,” Chanyeol urges before he releases the dancer’s wrist.

Once again, silence engulfs their bodies, wrapping them in a bubble that is on the edge of bursting. But neither wants to be the one responsible for rupturing it.

“What did you mean when you said that you could help?” Chanyeol finally initiates. He hates every word that comes out of his mouth, detests asking for help. But the protest is only two weeks away, and at this rate, he is uncertain if the revolution will ever gain enough momentum.

“Why do you support the revolution?” Baekhyun’s question is out of place, like a mismatched puzzle piece.

Chanyeol furrows his brows. Is it a habit of Baekhyun to ask sudden, off-topic questions? “That has nothing to do with what I asked,” he responds.

“I know. Why do you support the revolution?” the dancer repeats.

Chanyeol narrows his eyes. Is this a trick question? “What do you think? You’ve attended my speeches already.”

“I know.” Baekhyun bites his lower lip. “But, why does all this,” he gestures around, “ matter to you?”

“What the hell do you mean by that?” Chanyeol clenches his fists. “My parents indoctrinated me to believe the Consulate’s filthy bullshit. Turns out it was all fake. What else do you need? You think I’m doing all this because it’s funny?” Only when he sees Baekhyun’s startled eyes does Chanyeol realize that he was shouting.

Baekhyun responds with a trembling voice. “No. It’s just that… Aren’t you wealthy? How can you understand what it is like to live at the bottom of society?”

Chanyeol grits his teeth as he responded. “I don’t need to  _ see _ anything to understand. People have told me enough.”

“Who told you?”

Baekhyun’s continues questions begin to irritate him. Would the dancer help him already?

“My professor. He grew up poor.” Chanyeol responds tursely, eager to end the interrogation.

“Your professor…” Baekhyun’s voice no longer trembles but is still soft. “The fact that he became a professor...he was adopted by a wealthy family, wasn’t he?”

Chanyeol looks up and stared into Baekhyun’s eyes. “How did you know?”

The dancer blinks and draws his eyes away. “If he was poor, there is no way he could have become a professor. He would be a peasant, as would his children, and grandchildren, and great children.”

“How are you so sure of that?”

“How can I not be sure?” Baekhyun answers. “I see it...I  _ live _ it everyday.”

A pause interrupts the flow of their conversation as Chanyeol is unsure how to respond. Baekhyun is still avoiding his question about how the dancer will help him. Chanyeol knows--but does not admit verbally--that the Revolution lacks the momentum that it needs, that support mainly comes from disillusioned youths, educated by secretly revolutionary professors. But he needs something more. And if Baekhyun can truly help him... 

“And the point of all this is?”  Chanyeol finally breaks the silence.

“Well,” uncertainty lines the dancers voice again. “How can you represent a population that you don’t understand?”

“What, are you suggesting that I go visit your village?” Chanyeol sneers.

Baekhyun blinks at Chanyeol, without any other clear reaction.

Then it clicks, and Chanyeol wants to punch himself for his own stupidity. How did he think the Revolution would gain momentum if he never reaches out to the outskirts of Cathay? Villagers have no idea that the Revolution is in the works. Strategies to start a revolution from the Old World will not work in a New World country as expansive and diverse as Cathay.

Why is he so slow at picking up Baekhyun’s hints? But also, “why didn’t you just say so?”

The dancer lowers his head, but makes no vocal response.

Chanyeol lets out a sigh of surrender, realizing that cooperating with Baekhyun necessitates letting go of his cold front. “Nevermind. How about this, why don’t you tell me about your village?”

Baekhyun lifts his head, eyes lighting up for a moment. “Or, how about you come with me?”

 

\---

 

The days left until the demonstration are trickling down. Chanyeol should be spending the day organizing logistics and giving speeches at the tavern. Instead, he finds himself huddled on a crowded bus headed for a village on the northwest border of  _ Haiqing _ , the province where the Tavern is located. Baekhyun is by his side, no longer dressed in a wig or a dress, yet still sporting feminine features and the same soft gaze.

The bus is a separate microcosm than the large cities of central Cathay. It is a sight never seen on the urban monorail systems in central Cathay, where citizens are taught to stay silent, to avoid eye contact at all times, like manufactured robots. Here, cloaked figures chatter and gossip like a herd of birds, bubbling with vivacity, despite their visual state of poverty.

A pang of doubt intrudes Chanyeol’s otherwise peaceful mind--would these happy villagers even  _ want _ a Revolution?

A sudden jerk on the bus almost throws him off his seat. Last minute, a hand on his arm holds him in place. Baekhyun’s grip is firm despite his visibly feeble body, and Chanyeol wonders if Baekhyun is as weak as he presents himself to be.

“Thanks,” Chanyeol mutters before retracting his arm.

The ride is bumpy to say the least, but Chanyeol finds that sitting still only increases his attention to the churning of his stomach. Looking out the window also provides little comfort, despite the stretches of natural scenery that provide a peaceful contrast to the populated urban centers that Chanyeol spends his time in.

“Do you miss home?” He finally asks, realizing that if he does not talk, he will end up with half the contents of his stomach on the floor.

Baekhyun turns to him, startled. “Me?” he asks, pointing to himself.

Chanyeol scoffs, almost laughing at Baekhyun’s oblivion. “Yes, you.”

Baekhyun’s eyes begin to drift to stare outside. Chanyeol notices that this is a habit of Baekhyun’s anytime he is in deep thought.

The dancer takes a big breath before answering. “Sometimes I miss my mother’s food and the liveliness of the community. My father doesn’t live in the village, so it’s not as bad, But I still can’t be myself completely.”

Chanyeol nods, expecting that answer. Rural Cathay, despite being shielded from the Consulates control, still holds onto the traditional values of patriarchal confucianism from the Old World. Someone like Baekhyun does not feel welcomed without molding into traditional gender expectations. Even Chanyeol, despite his masculine appearance, would not fit in if anyone finds out his sexual orientation.

“What about you?” Baekhyun’s question throws Chanyeol off guard. He did not expect that the dancer wanted to maintain their conversation. “Do you ever regret leaving home?”

Chanyeol answers sternly, without hesitation. “No. Never. Remember? My parents… they lied to me. They made me believe in the world that the Consulate constructed.” He clenches his fists. “I can’t forgive them for that.”

“Why do you blame them? Aren’t they fooled by the Consulate as well?”

Chanyeol draws a deep breath before shaking his head. “No. My father would invite members of the Consulate over for dinner when I was younger. I only realized much later as a college student that their late-night conversations were actually plans to solidify separate social classes.” He inhales sharply before the next words left his mouth, fused with disgust. “My father would laugh. He said his business would now thrive.”

Baekhyun does not respond immediately, but eventually he rests a hand on Chanyeol’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Chanyeol flinches slightly, but does not pull away. Instead, he finds that Baekhyun’s hand offers him a source of comfort, a reminder that he is not alone. “There’s nothing you should be apologizing for. None of it was your fault.”

Baekhyun’s eyes lock with his own. “Saying I’m sorry does not always have to be for something that is my fault. Sometimes, it is a question of understanding.”

A perplexed look must have flashed on Chanyeol’s face because Baekhyun drops the topic and withdraws his hand.

“There are a few things that you should be careful with when we get to the village,” he starts again. “The first being, they don’t know that my father still contacts me. He was banished a few years ago, after what he did to my mother….”

Chanyeol thinks he saw Baekhyun’s eyes begin to water, but the dancer lowers his head before Chanyeol can confirm. Chanyeol nods in silent understanding, not pressing further.

Baekhyun’s hiccups before he continues. “Second, people are judgemental and rumors travels fast, especially when there’s a newcomer. But the aunties are harmless.” 

Chanyeol raises an eyebrow. “Are there few people outside the village who visit?”

“No, there are. But the capital boy will no doubt be the focus of gossip for weeks,” Baekhyun chuckles. “But you should be more worried about the third thing. Most people know--they live in the inequities of Cathay, but to them, revolution seems hopeless, let alone a demonstration.”

Chanyeol’s face darkens. “Then why am I here? I could be focusing on more important things right now.”

“But, how are you going to organize a revolution for the poor without the poor revolting?” Baekhyun replies patiently. “The people here might not want to revolt now, but they will be willing to listen.”

“But, how do you know they will listen to  _ me _ ?” The doubt is back again, the voice in the back of Chanyeol’s mind asking him if he could succeed, or if he  _ should _ revolt in the first place. If he could not even gain the support of the poor, why should he even bother trying?

“Don’t worry.” Baekhyun rests his hand on Chanyeol’s knee and squeezes gently. “ I will help you.”

Chanyeol doesn’t flinch this time and instead, a slight smile plays on his lips as he welcomes the feeling of warmth and consolation that the dancer’s touch brings. They ride in contemplative peace. Baekhyun gazes out the window with a nostalgic expression, as if reminiscing about his past train rides back home. They respect each other’s boundaries, yet never forget that, despite meeting each other not too long ago, they are not alone.

 

\---

 

It’s evening when they finally arrive. A sudden wave of noise and clutter bombards Chanyeol as he steps off the bus. He thought the bus was lively, but the village is an entirely different level. Dozens of citizens, both young and old, crowd in a small but vibrant marketplace, bargain for produce and textiles. His senses are instantly magnified as he takes in the overwhelming sights and smells: the sharp aroma of spicy noodles, the scarlet lanterns that hung from the top of each booth, the sound of high-pitched shouting, to which he turns around and is almost hit by one of the dirt-covered little children scampering around the streets.

“I knew you would like it,” Baekhyun laughs. “It must be very different than what you are used to.”

And different it is. In the Capitol, any noise louder than the smooth  _ woosh  _ of the monorails, or anything that would ruin the city’s pristine, sterile image, is immediately cracked down upon by the National Guard. Here, west of the Consulate’s control, are signs of not only life, but  _ culture _ . The village is a haven of Old World Cathay, captured in delicacies, language, and traditions.

For a moment, Chanyeol forgets that they are there for ulterior motives. His palms grow clammy when he remembers that he is not here for relaxation; he is here to convince these people for their support. He glances at Baekhyun, who is smiling fondly at an old grandma feeding tofu pudding to the group of children to calm them down. Almost immediately, Chanyeol’s nerves calmed down. He takes a deep breath. He is not alone.

“We should get going. Follow me closely and make sure not to get lost,” Baekhyun warns. He begins to walk toward the village homes, away from the chaos and toward tranquility.

Despite Chanyeol having longer legs, he can hardly keep up with the dancer. Baekhyun seems accustomed to navigating through the marketplace, smoothly dodging the village shoppers and merchants while occasionally shouting a greeting to a few of the old ladies selling fruits.

Chanyeol finally realizes why Baekhyun warned him about not getting lost when they reach the entrance of the village residential area. They make their way through the dirt roads that are too narrow to fit cars. Identical rectangular homes line block after block, making each street indistinguishable from the next. They are hovels, to say the least, with dirty concrete walls and roofs that need repair.

They eventually reach a small group of old villagers sitting around a table, playing what Chanyeol assumes to be  _ mahjong _ . The villagers bicker back and forth, but while most Capitol-born-and-raised would frown at the sight, their liveliness brings warmth to Chanyeol.

Yet, as he stands watching, a sudden gut-wrenching feeling of anxiety grows builds in the pit of his stomach. How will people react to a Capitol-born revolutionary, someone who has never lived in poverty, telling them to organize? Despite the confidence that he radiates during the rallies at the Tavern, Chanyeol is someone who keeps his insecurities hidden behind brashness. Insecurity builds and builds, until he relinquishes it through working sleepless nights. But here in the village, he has nowhere to hide.

When the villagers finally pause their chatter to reshuffle for the next round, they look up to see Baekhyun, smiling patiently, and a flustered Chanyeol (failing at) hiding behind the shorter dancer.

“Gosh, Byun Baekhyun! Is that you?” The old woman seated at the right side of the table slowly stands up while she holds onto the table to stabilize herself.

Baekhyun takes a step closer to her and takes ahold of her hands in his own. “Yes Mrs. Lee, it’s me. I’m back.” A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “How is your family doing?”

“You ask me this question now but don’t bother to pay us a visit in an entire year?” Mrs. Lee scoffs, but her annoyance fades as quickly as it arrived. “We’re doing our best, just trying to make it through the winter.”

She gazes fondly at Baekhyun for a moment, before she notices the awkward figure behind him. “Oh, and who is this?”

Before Chanyeol can open his mouth to speak, Baekhyun comes to his rescue. “Mrs. Lee, this is Park Chanyeol. He’s a friend of mine.”

Chanyeol’s name sounds foreign on Baekhyun’s tongue, and that’s when Chanyeol realizes that this is his first time hearing the dancer address his by name. It’s not a surprise that Baekhyun knows it, anyway. Everyone at the Tavern knows who the revolutionary is.

“You don’t look like you’re from here.” One of the men still seated at the table interjects into the conversation.

“Mr. Yang, you can’t say that.” Mrs. Lee frowns.

“That’s alright. It’s true, I stand out like a sore thumb” Chanyeol finally speaks. He knows he has already been caught. There will be rumors, whether he hides his identity or not.

Mr. Yang scans Chanyeol from head to toe and his face contorts into an expression of befuddlement. “Your clothes look like you’re from  _ Haiqing _ , but your mannerisms…your mannerisms are from the Capitol.”

Baekhyun steals a glance at Chanyeol while biting his lip. He is about to say something, most likely to turn attention away from Chanyeol, but Chanyeol gets to it first.

“Your assumption is correct. I’m from the Capitol.” Chanyeol waits for a reaction from Mr. Yang, but when the old man just nods slightly, he continues. “But don’t worry, I am not one of them. I hate that place, more than anywhere else.” Confidence to hide his insecurity. His voice doesn’t falter, he must paint an image of perfection. Yet, he can’t help but notice how Mrs. Yang raises her eyebrows when he expresses his loathing for the Capitol.

“Oh, how could you possibly hate living in the Capitol? Isn’t it luxurious?” Mrs. Lee gesticulates at their surroundings. “Much cleaner than this place, for sure.”

Chanyeol grits his teeth in exasperation. Why doesn’t anyone understand? A flash of anger manifests in his reply. “The Capitol is not a good place. There is no such thing as freedom when the Consulate is in a five kilometer radius from you at all times.” His face contorts into one of disgust.

Mrs. Lee opens her mouth to reply, but Baekhyun is faster. “Sorry Mrs. Lee, Chanyeol and I should get going. Come on.” He grips Chanyeol’s wrist and tugs.

Chanyeol frowns. Does Baekhyun have to be a peace mediator? He always avoids conflict at all costs. Nonetheless, Chanyeol is grateful that the dancer interrupts them before the conversation turns into an argument.

“Where the hell are you taking me?” Chanyeol asks.

Baekhyun doesn’t reply, and continues to lead Chanyeol through the same narrow streets lined with the same houses. Chanyeol almost wonders if they are walking in circles when they finally stop in front of an open gate.

This house is like the rest, but slightly more dilapidated. The windows are cracked, held together only by white tape, and there is no door but a beaded curtain. Baekhyun’s face holds a tender expression.

“Is this…?” Chanyeol asks. He doesn’t complete his question, but he knows that the same thing is on Baekhyun’s mind.

“Yeah,” Baekhyun confirms.

Chanyeol glances down at their hands. Baekhyun’s slender fingers are still loosely hanging onto his wrist. Baekhyun finally notices as well, and his eyes go wide before he pulls away.

“Ah, sorry,” Baekhyun mutters.

Chanyeol swallows, but doesn’t to respond. Baekhyun’s touch leaves a pool of warmth on his wrist, one that contrasts against the brisk winter air. Baekhyun clears his throat before he parts the beaded curtain and steps inside. Chanyeol follows a foostep behind.

They enter a makeshift living room of sorts. Two wooden chairs sit idly next to a round table in a corner of the small room. There are three doorways, one to the left and another to the right, presumably leading to bedrooms. A pleasant smell wafts out of the third doorway on the back wall of the living room. It must be the kitchen. The house is small, yet, feels empty, lacking a certain coziness that Chanyeol expected based on the liveliness of the village marketplace.

“Mother?” Baekhyun asks.

A clattering cacophony comes from the kitchen. A woman steps out into the living room. If Baekhyun is as old as Chanyeol, then she cannot be past her mid fifties, yet, she looks much older. Her hair is all gray and wirey. Wrinkles etch her face, and her eyes droop with a kind of sadness, a melancholy that is characteristic of those who have lost all their loved ones.

She looks dumbfounded to see Baekhyun standing in her living room, and at first Chanyeol is afraid that their reuniting will be uncomfortable. Eventually, a thin-lipped smile stretches across her face. She opens her arms and wraps Baekhyun into a tight embrace.

Baekhyun’s mother pulls back and scans her son’s face, as if double-checking if it is truly him. “Son, it’s been a while. Why didn’t you come back sooner?”

Baekhyun sighs. “I was busy. You know that I would visit if I had the time.”

Interesting. Chanyeol can tell that Baekhyun is lying. The latter had admitted that he could not be himself completely in the village. He must be telling a white lie so that his mother wouldn’t be offended. In the time Chanyeol has spent with Baekhyun, Chanyeol has come to realize that one of Baekhyun’s prominent characteristics is that he doesn’t like seeing other people struggle or hurt. He always apologizes first, keeps his pain to himself, and avoids conflict at all costs. So different from Chanyeol, who lashes out easily, blames others, and is sometimes too direct.

As soon as Chanyeol starts to wonder if he has been forgotten, Baekhyun turns toward him. “Mother, meet Chanyeol. He’s a friend from  _ Haiqing _ and will be staying with us tonight.”

Chanyeol from  _ Haiqing.  _ Not from the Capitol. He doesn’t correct Baekhyun, knowing that the dancer wants to avoid a repeat of what had happened with Mrs. Lee and Mr. Yang.

Chanyeol bows in respect. “Nice to meet you Mrs…”

“You may call me auntie.” Baekhyun’s mother flashes the same thin-lipped smile. “Baekhyun didn’t tell us that he would be coming home, let alone bringing a friend. I apologize if we are unprepared.”

“No worries,” Chanyeol chuckles.

“Well, I got to go check up on the food. Make yourself at home,” Baekhyun’s mother comments before heading back to the kitchen.

“Your mother is nice,” Chanyeol whispers. He isn’t lying; Baekhyun’s mother is nice, definitely nicer than his own parents, even though he can’t brush away that look of loneliness on her face.

“Yeah,” Baekhyun mutters in agreement. “She’s still nice to me, even though she knows. Well, she knows that I don’t like girls, but she doesn’t know about the whole dancing thing.” He bites his lip, as if preventing himself from elaborating further.

“I see.” Chanyeol lets out a hollow breath. He wonders how Baekhyun’s mother reacted when she found out Baekhyun’s sexual orientation. Was it like Chanyeol’s own father, who roared and whipped him with a belt, until he escaped from home? Or was it like his mother, who could not stop crying, begging him to stop lying?

Chanyeol recalls that night when Baekhyun entered the Tavern, purple and pink blotches scattered on his pale back.  _ It was my father _ . One thing is certain--their fathers had the same reaction, but while Chanyeol had the fortune to escape the misery, Baekhyun still suffers from time-to-time.

“Oh shoot, I forgot.” Baekhyun tilts his head to the doorway on the right. “Let’s put down our things.”

The bedroom they enter must be Baekhyun’s. It is small, with a narrow bed in the corner, and a simple vanity and drawer tucked in the remaining space.

Chanyeol does not have many items with him, save for a backpack with two changes of clothes and some toiletries. Like Baekhyun, he sets his backpack on the floor. As he does so, something on the vanity catches his eye.

Chanyeol picks up a dusty picture frame. The faded photograph captures a young boy holding a badminton racket upside down with a pout on his face.

“Is this you?” he laughs. Baby Baekhyun is cute.

Baekhyun approaches from behind and peers over Chanyeol’s shoulder. He titters softly.  “Yeah, that’s me.”

“Why were you pouting?” Chanyeol asks. He’s not one to take interest in others’ childhood stories, but he is curious, intrigued even, to hear about Baekhyun’s background.

“I was sad that I had to leave the badminton racket behind.” A fond look passes on Baekhyun’s face. The corners of his mouth curl up, the hint of a smile dusting his lips. Chanyeol hates to admit it, but Baekhyun looks pretty like that.

He shouldn’t ask. He shouldn’t get to know anyone too deeply.

“Why did you have to leave it behind?” he finds himself blurting out the next question.

Baekhyun points to the background of the photograph.

“I was at school. It was the only place that I could play sports.” His eyes start to glisten, but he quickly blinks away any incoming tears. “My family couldn’t afford any toys or entertainment so school was my favorite place to be.”

Chanyeol purses his lips, unsure of how to respond. He has a strong urge to apologize. Should he? But, it isn’t his fault that Baekhyun grew up in poverty. Or  _ is it _ his fault? No, it was the Consulate’s fault. The Consulate and their obsession with widening the wealth gap.

“I’m sorry. It must have been hard.” He still apologizes, remembering what Baekhyun said earlier.  _ Saying I’m sorry does not always have to be for something that is my fault. Sometimes, it is a question of understanding _

Baekhyun nods. “It was, but it’s alright. I was a happy child, as long as I could go to school.” He suddenly frowns, any trace of a smile gone, brows furrowed together. A pained expression replaces his nostalgia.

“Why the sad face?” Chanyeol shouldn’t be pushing any farther. He shouldn’t care, he has never cared about anyone else. But Baekhyun’s sudden change in mood is startling.

Baekhyun swallows. He starts to dig his fingernails into his palms again.

“Hey, stop doing that.”

Baekhyun doesn’t listen. He continues to press crescent-shaped crevices into his skin.

“Stop, do you  _ want _ to hurt yourself?” Chanyeol snaps. He grabs Baekhyun’s wrists and yank them apart.

A moment of silence passes. Chanyeol still holds onto Baekhyun’s wrists, and Baekhyun stands there, not fighting against Chanyeol’s grip.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,” Chanyeol retorts. His apology is cold, lacking any empathy. He lets go of his hold on Baekhyun. But, Chanyeol immediately regrets using such an icy tone of voice. He knows Baekhyun is hurt--the dancer still hasn’t moved, and he’s now furiously biting his bottom lip.

“No, I’m sorry. I just--I don’t know. Sorry.” Baekhyun hiccups.

Chanyeol’s breath hitches as something clenches in his chest. This is a new sensation that he hasn’t felt before. Baekhyun, someone that has been nothing but kind and helpful, has so much pain. He hides it, doesn’t allow himself to inflict pain on others. Baekhyun, who despite not feeling welcome in the village, still tells his mother that he wanted to visit her more often. Baekhyun, who, hasn’t asked anything in return for agreeing to help him plan the revolution. Baekhyun, who Chanyeol has treated like shit the entire time. Looking at Baekhyun, Chanyeol feels hurt too. Feeling pain when others are hurt, is this normal?

“If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t need to.” Chanyeol’s voice is soft and low.

Baekhyun shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. I can talk about it.” He takes a deep breath before starting. “My childhood was mostly laughs and smiles, until I was fourteen. That year, the entire village’s crops failed and we had almost nothing to eat except for rice porridge and insects. I remember tying a rope around my waist to make myself feel full at night.”

Hearing Baekhyun talk about his adolescent conditions makes Chanyeol flame with anger. When Chanyeol was fourteen, he never needed to worry about putting a meal in his stomach. In fact, he was overweight, and his mother did everything possible to keep food away from him. He grew up attending lavish parties where half the food became leftovers that were simply thrown away. The Capitol took the peasants’ crops, paid them nothing, and wasted a year’s worth of hard work.

Baekhyun continues, “that’s when my father started to get drunk every Friday night. He would come home intoxicated, and at first it was fine. But then, he started to hit my mother. I didn’t know what to do… my mother said not to tell anyone, so I didn’t.

“But when I was sixteen, rumors started spreading about my sexuality, and… it got a lot worse.” He is just barely audible now, but Chanyeol can hear his voice tremble. Baekhyun doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t detail what his father did, but Chanyeol can imagine.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Chanyeol mutters. Because, even if it was the Consulate’s fault, he had been complicit in maintaining the system of inequality. And, he is angry, just so angry.

“But hey! I eventually told someone what was happening at home, and the entire village got together and decided to kick him out.” Baekhyun grins, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. It looks like he is forcing himself not to cry. He blinks rapidly as Chanyeol stares at him.

“Well,” Baekhyun turns to face Chanyeol once his eyes are dry. “What about you?”

“Me?” Chanyeol points at himself, not expecting the sudden change in the focus of the conversation. “What about me?”

“It’s your turn. Tell me about what your childhood was like.”

Chanyeol stares at Baekhyun. He can’t pinpoint why it is that Baekhyun wants to know about him. They only agreed on a professional relationship. Yet then again, it was Chanyeol who first started this conversation. He really, really isn’t the type to get to know someone, and he’s even less of the type of person to get to be known. But, he’s starting to feel comfortable around Baekhyun. The dancer isn’t obnoxiously loud, and now that they’ve gotten over most of their awkward silences, Chanyeol finds himself not unwilling to open up.

“You can imagine,” he begins. “You already know how much I hated it. Hated the limitations, the restrictions.” He clenches his fist, angry at the thought of how he was brainwashed from the day he could understand words.

“Care to elaborate?” Baekhyun asks, with genuine curiosity in his voice.

“Well,” Chanyeol furrows his brows. He wants to elaborate, somehow express his genuine emotions and experiences, but his tongue is tied up. He’s not sure of how to put it all into words.

He remembers how his father recite virtues every morning. Virtue one--obey the Consulate at all costs. If the Consulate says to work, then work. If the Consulate says to fight, then fight. If the Consulate says to kill, then kill. Virtue two--you are worth only as much as you can make. Never stop working until you are richer than the rest. There are dozens more, but even more unspoken virtues: that Usonia, the leader of the Western World, was the supreme nation of the world; that fair skin was desired and dark skin was dirty; that the poor were poor because they were not hardworking and deserved to be punished.

“It was hell,” was all he could muster. “I know you’re expecting more of an answer, but it’s hard to explain. I’m not the best with words.”

Baekhyun cocks his head. “Bad with words? Aren’t you the one would ramble on for ten, twenty minutes in front of a crowd?”

Chanyeol is about to snap back, but when he looks at Baekhyun, the latter has laughter hanging on his lips. Not the mocking kind, but one of light amusement.

“That’s different,” Chanyeol laughs off Baekhyun’s comment.

It’s different because his speeches in front of a crowd are never personal. It’s a shared experience, a shared sense of injustice and anger. He doesn’t have to explain his own personal sentiments.

How ironic, Chanyeol thinks. How ironic, that he, someone who never needed to worry about earning the next dollar, never needed to worry about feeding his family, was leading the Revolution against the Consulate. Baekhyun is right, how can he understand what it truly is like to live in poverty?

“I’m scared,” Chanyeol suddenly looks Baekhyun in the eye and confesses. “How can I possibly lead if… if I’m not one of you? They’ll see me as just a childish Capitol boy complaining over nothing. I’m laughable.” His voice breaks. The image he portrays to others--strong and untouchable--breaks too.

“Chanyeol, I already told you, don’t worry.” Baekhyun’s words are soothing, like drops of sweet honey that Chanyeol eagerly drinks up. “When I saw your speech for the first time, do you remember what you said? ‘A revolution is not a bed of roses. A resolution is a struggle to the death between the future and the past.’ You said you were willing to sacrifice your life for this cause. I didn’t believe you at first, but now I do. You deserve to lead this Revolution. I believe in you.” Baekhyun takes ahold of Chanyeol’s hand. “And remember, I’ll be here too.”

Chanyeol swallows thickly but nods. He doesn’t pull away, savoring the warmth that Baekhyun’s touch brings. Baekhyun’s words turn Chanyeol’s regret into relief, as though a heavy burden has been eased off his shoulders. He feels comfortable and safe spilling his worries with Baekhyun next to him.

This feeling he feels with Baekhyun is rare, but he is certain about it: trust. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haiqing province is a reference to Qinghai province of China  
> Usonia, if you couldn't tell, is a reference to the United States
> 
> \---
> 
> Apologies for such a delayed update! I had testing throughout May, so I had to put a hiatus on writing.

**Author's Note:**

> Regarding the term "Tongzhi": https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tongzhi_(term)  
> "Duizhang" = leader  
> Baijiu = Chinese liquor (similar to soju)


End file.
